


Mark of Approval

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Dirty Talk, Filthy and Romantic, Fingerfucking, Greg is a Beast, Love Bites, M/M, PWP, Soft Smut Sunday, dominant greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 19:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: "Made a mess of you. Kinda pretty." It's four AM in Paris. Mycroft has finally caved to the irresistible appeal of Greg Lestrade—and after three nights of each other, there's still no sign of relief.





	Mark of Approval

Paris - The San Régis.

It was the third morning, and it was four AM.

Mycroft found himself in the darkened black-and-rose bathroom, standing naked before the mirror. As he washed the heat from his face, his languid eyes trailed his own bare chest in the glass. Soft pink bites were scattered across his neck and shoulders like rose petals over snow. Every single one was a memory.

In the quiet clarity of the predawn, he could unlock and revisit each one with a single glance.

The freshest and brightest, last night - pinned back against the headboard, heaving as his lover fucked him hard without a sound, gripping the man's gorgeous arse in both his hands, feeling each slam drive deeper and deeper into his body. He'd come in floods between their chests, whimpering; come with his lover's tongue in his mouth.

One here, close to his collarbones - the shared shower on their first night, kissing and exploring each other beneath the spray until they could barely breathe. It had felt like being prepared for something - ritualistic, almost - stripped to his bare skin before the mirror, drawn beneath the water and cleansed of nearly a decade of miserable celibacy. They'd met over three years ago; they _truly_ met right here.

Another mark at the very side of his neck - deep. It ached even now as Mycroft stroked it. Yesterday morning. Bent over the bed without a shred of dignity to his name, thighs spread apart and his body opened up by a soft and greedy tongue, slickened until he was almost sobbing with the need to be fucked.

No lubricant; unnecessary. Wet and desperate enough.

His lover had snarled against his neck, bitten him as he pushed inside.

"Teasing me," he'd whispered against the bite, taking a grip of Mycroft's shoulder - and then the first thrust fucked all sound from Mycroft's throat, and he clawed into the mattress, panting in silent frenzied pleasure. "Walking around like that in a towel... you _know_ what you do to me..."

Three nights now.

He'd picked Paris for culture, for coffee and for conversation.

They'd now spent nearly sixty hours locked in the room, ebbing and flowing from one round of exhaustive sex to the next.

Mycroft felt alive.

They'd barely done anything else. Fucked, rested, and fed each other by hand with whatever room service cared to bring them. Yesterday afternoon, they'd tried to watch a film - and ended up fucking restlessly on the couch. Mycroft hadn't the nerve to be surprised. The heat wasn't easing yet. The fever hadn't broken. It didn't even cool for long, and it seemed to be returning more potently each time. They'd stopped using condoms - both clean, no need. Something about having his lover's emission wet inside him all day made Mycroft feel bloody depraved. It wasn't simply the sensation; it was how much he bloody _liked_ it.

He'd still have these bites next week. He'd see them in his own bathroom mirror as he showered each morning, as he dressed in his bedroom, as he undressed again after work. When he faced world leaders across a negotiating table, his body beneath his clothes would still show that it belonged to a lover.

As he quietly dampened the flannel, and held the cool water against the newest of his bites, Mycroft met his own sated eyes in the mirror.

A man he'd never really known gazed back at him - a man at ease inside his own skin, aware of his every breath, content simply to stand here and enjoy the feeling of moisture against his neck. He wasn't thinking about the past, analyzing poor decisions, grieving those choices he couldn't change. He wasn't thinking about the future, returning to his work, suspecting every colleague now knew every detail of his indiscretions, where he was in this moment, and with whom, and for what purpose.

He was just here, standing at a sink before dawn, soothing the signatures written across his skin.

As he closed his eyes with the thought, shivering slowly, he caught the pad of quiet footsteps towards the open door.

He opened his eyes to the mirror as his lover appeared - sleepy, shadowed, mouth lifted in the half-smile he seemed to save for Mycroft. Three restless nights of relief, and Lestrade somehow doubled in appeal every morning. There was an ease to his movements as he idled into the room, a glint to his gaze as it held Mycroft's in the mirror.

It made Mycroft feel almost filthily proud, knowing he was responsible for that brightness - he was the lover who'd now satisfied the man for three days.

Lestrade stepped close behind him without a word, tucking against his naked back. He eased an arm around Mycroft's waist. He nosed at the nape of Mycroft's neck.

As his cock nuzzled against the cleft of Mycroft's arse, Mycroft shivered and shut his eyes once more.

"It is four o'clock in the morning..." he breathed.

"Does it matter?" _Christ help me, that voice._ "Stopped caring about day and night some time ago..."

Lestrade's fingers brushed over his bare stomach, idling downwards. They curled without pretense around Mycroft's cock.

Twitching, Mycroft gasped.

"Mmhm... good," Lestrade rumbled, finding the first stirring there already. He stroked as he murmured, coaxing Mycroft to harden for him. "Want you, posh thing... s'that okay?"

Mycroft bit down on his whimper. His chest ached as he breathed in, trembling at the lazy caresses.

"God almighty," he whispered. "L-Lestrade - "

"Made a mess of you," his lover remarked, his voice low. He nuzzled at the newest of the bites and met Mycroft's wide eyes in the mirror, his own gaze soft and dark. The man was a devil in human form. He was divine. "All bitten and fucked," Lestrade husked. "Kinda pretty."

"Y-You are wicked," Mycroft managed, shaking. "You will be the end of me."

Lestrade's mouth curved. He stroked his other hand over the side of Mycroft's hip, his grip both gentle and possessive. "Then tell me to get my filthy paws off you, darlin'."

Mycroft swallowed. He would rather die in this moment than do that, and Lestrade knew it. He could only inhale and moan as his lover continued to rub his cock into hardness, stroking him, soothing him, licking slowly at his neck.

"You still wet from last night, sweetheart?" Lestrade murmured, pressing up against his arse. "Still slick for me?"

"Oh - _Christ - "_

A gentle push between his shoulder blades persuaded Mycroft forwards over the sink.

"Let's find out," Lestrade said.

_Oh. Oh, fuck..._

Mycroft's heart began to pound. He bent forwards in obedience, resting his weight on the cool white ceramic and the gleaming black countertop around it. His cock throbbed as thick fingers slid between his arse cheeks without preface.

"Spread," Lestrade soothed.

Mycroft spread, heat flashing across his face. _God almighty._

The searching fingers sought him out, familiar with him now, more comfortable with his body than Mycroft had ever been. Lestrade rubbed, then gently breached his body with a fingertip - he breathed a slow sigh against Mycroft's trembling shoulder.

"Mmhm... thought so."

The finger eased its way inside in little thrusts, gentle. Mycroft's arms shook where he'd braced them against the counter. He hung his head and breathed, fighting not to moan. He'd now spent three nights whimpering and gasping and whining for Greg Lestrade, pouring out his soul at every touch. He was determined to retain himself some dignity this time. _Self-restraint,_ he thought. It would begin here.

Not that it was easy - especially with Lestrade's voice in his ear.

"Just look how fucking gorgeous you are..."

Mycroft glanced up into the mirror, shaking finely. Lestrade's ebony-dark eyes were upon him, watching him bite down on his pleasure. As their eyes found each other, Greg's finger crooked inside him and _pressed,_ rubbing slow and firm.

Mycroft twisted, heaving, pleasure burning at once through his lower body. He dug his teeth into his lip. _Fuck me,_ he wanted to plead. _Fuck me. Fuck me now. Don't wait. Please. I need to be fucked. I need it again, please._

"Look at you, pretty... acting like you could take it or leave it. D'you think I've not had you enough times now to see it?"

Mycroft trembled, his gaze shuttering as Greg's finger began the steady little swirls that he liked. He felt like a pool of water, agitated from its very depths, rippling desperately across his surface. He rolled his lower lip between his teeth, letting out his mounting pleasure in just his breathing, proud of how well he'd stayed quiet.

Greg hummed, stroking a kiss across his shoulder.

"Maybe you _could_ leave it, though." He began to withdraw his finger. "Maybe you're not so fussed after all..."

"Please - " The word tore itself from Mycroft's treacherous mouth. "No, I - p-please..."

The look he received in the mirror would never fade in his memory.

He'd never been consumed by eyes like that before. He'd never been the sole focus of such utter, absolute delight. It made his cock burn where it pressed against the cold ceramic of the sink, his pulse skittering wildly in immediate response.

Lestrade's finger cosied back inside him, rewarding him.

Mycroft quivered, letting out an obedient moan. He clutched the sink as Lestrade started to fuck him gently.

"Oh please," he breathed. He pushed his legs apart further, whimpering. "Please. Please."

"Mmhm. I like you pleading with me." Lestrade's other hand pressed on Mycroft's lower back, steadying him. "Begging for it... Christ, I want you..."

"Have me," Mycroft whispered. "Oh, _fuck._ Have me." A second finger slid its way inside him, slow and deep in one insistent push. Mycroft thrust against the sink as he cried out, grinding his cock against the thrilling cool of the ceramic. "Oh, _fuck...!"_

"Mm?" Two fingers - two, fucking him steadily now. Lestrade's voice trickled across his bare back as he arched. "You need me inside you, don't you? You like me here, closer than your skin... fingers, cock, tongue... you just like being fucked, darlin'..."

Mycroft groaned his agreement, weak, punishing his own lip between his teeth as Lestrade fucked him slow and easy.

He couldn't remember when his eyes had closed.

Lestrade was starting to speak to his body in ways he hadn't even known he wanted, ways he didn't entirely understand. The stroke of the man's hands now brought a promise that they knew what they were doing. Mycroft could trust them, relax for them, _let_ them, let the hands skim over him and toy with him and bring him everything he needed. He just had to give himself to them.

The fingers now softening him for sex were the fingers that had done this last night, yesterday, and the day before. They were here for another four nights. Mycroft was going to die.

He'd die entirely happy.

As Lestrade shifted behind him, slowly withdrawing his fingers, Mycroft's stomach clenched. He felt his entire body tighten in anticipation, his back curving of its own volition to offer up his hips, offering himself to the possession he knew was coming, _open, wet, ready - open for you - please - need -_

Lestrade's soft chuckle felt as pleasurable as a caress.

"I know, pretty," he whispered, and Mycroft realised with a spike of intoxicating shame that he was no longer in control of his own damn mouth. "I know you need it... it's coming, lovely."

A hand splayed on Mycroft's lower back to steady him; the other briefly vanished from his skin, and Mycroft knew where it was, wrapped around Lestrade's glorious cock to guide it into place, and the thought nearly stopped his heart. He crushed his teeth into his lip, head hanging over the sink as he fought not to come.

At the first coaxing press, his body contracted in instinct, resisting the attempt to push into him. Mycroft swallowed, shaking.

"Relax, sweetheart," Lestrade soothed. Mycroft felt his every nerve unravel on command. He breathed it out, melting, and Lestrade began to slide into him, stretching and slick and _huge,_ slow, pushing, filling, heaving him out to his very edges. Mycroft panted with the sheer intensity of it, curling his hands around the taps, pleasure and pain burning in breathtaking harmony through his body.

With a last gentle nudge, Lestrade settled himself deep.

All ten fingertips eased down Mycroft's trembling back.

"Breathe," Lestrade whispered. Mycroft's body responded on command, his lungs expanding in a long breath of calm. Lestrade's fingers stroked back up his spine. "Still tight for me, pretty..."

Mycroft's knuckles whitened around the taps. "C-Close - please don't - "

"Breathe it down for me."

Mycroft breathed, shaking, forcing his thoughts onto the steady sweep of Lestrade's fingers - not the gorgeous thickness of his cock.

"You know we're keeping this up when we get back to London, don't you?" Lestrade said, and Mycroft's heart reeled itself into space. They'd agreed that what took place in Paris should stay here. They had commitments, reputations and responsibilities. The thought of Sherlock's response alone made Mycroft rather want to vomit.

"We - " Mycroft's heart twisted, pounding itself apart. "W-We will - w-we will need to - "

"Mmhm. Keep it quiet. I know." Soothing down Mycroft's back again, Lestrade began to draw gentle circles with his thumbs either side of Mycroft's tailbone. "I can handle that. Can you?"

"God... oh, god..."

Lestrade chuckled, soft. "Good," he breathed, and leant down, stroking his wicked mouth across Mycroft's shoulder. "Up a little for me? Want your neck..."

_Fuck. Yes. Bite me while you fuck me. Mark me._

_Make me yours._

As Mycroft braced himself up on his arms, shaking, he felt the angle of Greg's cock shift inside him. The sensation was tighter, thicker, less intense against his prostate.

A shudder of pleasure coursed its way down his spine.

"Mm?" Lestrade's arm wrapped around his chest. He eased a little of his weight onto Mycroft's back, just enough to feel held down, just enough to feel good, and his mouth rasped against Mycroft's neck. "Relaxing for me?"

 _Too soft,_ Mycroft wanted to gasp - _too gentle - bite - please._ He quivered as Lestrade began to lick him, slow and wet swipes of a lazy and almost loving tongue.

"You okay if I take you now, posh thing?" Lestrade crooned. Mycroft's soul writhed as it burned. "Hold off on coming if you can... know you're hot with it, sweetheart... but do your best for me?"

Mycroft nodded, panting, his lower lip now stinging between his teeth.

The first slick withdrawal, and the first snug slide back in, cut his breath into nothing. Greg chuckled, tightened his hold and repeated the lazy motion, then again, easy and slow, exhaling with a shiver as he enjoyed Mycroft's body.

"All those years," he hummed in Mycroft's ear, his voice almost molten, "when we could've been doing this... wish I'd known... wish I'd realised how badly you need someone to fuck you like this..."

_God help me._

"All your posh suits," Lestrade whispered, close and hot and filthy, thrusting into him like they'd be here for hours yet. "Shiny black cars. Queen and country. And all you really want is cock."

_Yes. Yes, all I want._

_More. God, please. More._

Lestrade's grin curved against his neck. "More?" he said, and Mycroft's cheeks blazed with fresh heat. "More what?"

Swallowing, Mycroft dragged his voice up from the pit of his throat.

"B-Bite. Please."

"Bite?" Lestrade breathed - and licked at his neck, a perfectly soft stroke of sensation. "Want to feel my teeth, mm? Want me to hold you still while I fuck you?"

"Oh, fuck - _fuck_ \- "

Lestrade's arm tightened around his chest. "Open your eyes," he whispered, and as Mycroft gazed into the mirror, he could only watch and pant as Lestrade bit down. It was deep, and sharp, and so good it felt like coming. Lestrade held onto him, shivering at Mycroft's frantic keening moans. He drove a little deeper with his cock, a little harder, pressing Mycroft into the sink and fucking him fast as Mycroft struggled to stay still, gasping with the pain, begging feverishly for more.

When he finally released Mycroft's neck, Lestrade nuzzled his head to the side to admire his work.

"Mmhm... suits you, posh thing..."

Mycroft's knees were threatening to give way.

"Oh... oh, _fuck - "_ He couldn't cope with the rhythmic slam of pleasure, the tightness of the hold around him, the voice husking at his neck. He couldn't keep it contained. "G-Greg, I - oh, my god, oh fuck - "

"Shall we relocate, mm?" The murmur was as soft as the shadows; a gentle hand slid down the side of Mycroft's body. "Get you on your back, baby? Always takes you a little longer to come that way..."

Mycroft gasped, nodding in desperation. "P-Please..."

Lestrade kissed his neck, and eased out of him with care.

"C'mon," he whispered, taking Mycroft's hand. "Want to bite you while you're coming... feel you fall apart for me."

Mycroft was shaking almost too much to walk with any grace. He let Lestrade lead him back to the wreckage of their king-size bed, untucked sheets and strewn pillows and a red wine stain that would have to be paid for.

As he laid back within the softness, Lestrade leant over him to grab a pillow. He pulled it behind Mycroft's head; he kissed Mycroft's forehead.

"Comfy?" he murmured, and without a flicker of shame he pushed Mycroft's knees apart. Mycroft's heart kicked his pulse back into the stratosphere. "Like this, mm?" Lestrade soothed, shifting between his open thighs, and reached down to ease a hand beneath Mycroft's left shoulder. _To hold me. To fuck me._ "Wrap your legs around me, gorgeous. We can get nice and close like this."

Mycroft shuddered as he did so, panting. He crossed his ankles over Lestrade's lower back, feeling his body contract in anticipation. At the slick nuzzle of Lestrade's cock, he breathed in.

There was no discomfort - not a whisper of it - just the satisfying ache of being filled once more, heaving through him in a wave. Lestrade slid deep, then began to move almost at once. Mycroft shook and moaned, clinging to his back; Lestrade hissed in his ear.

"Yes, darlin'... that's it... hold onto me..."

_Oh, god. Fuck. Fucking god._

"Fuck, you feel so fucking good like this... underneath me, gasping for me... take my cock, pretty... moan it out for me."

Mycroft's hands tightened. He turned his face into Lestrade's hair, panting, drowning in his lover's scent as the pace picked up. He heard himself whimpering to be fucked, begging at pitch, and Lestrade's teeth sank into his neck. He howled; he gasped for more.

There was light on the curtains by the time Lestrade finally let him come. He had three more bites, including one over his hipbone, and he was quite certain he'd never walk with any grace again. The sweet, agonising ripples of climax took Mycroft's breath as they ached through his thighs, up his back and into his throat, pouring from him as pleas and profanity and gasps of Lestrade's first name. He was so lost in the rush of physical euphoria that at first he didn't realise Greg was coming with him, pushing deep and moaning against his throat. When he felt the flooding of his insides, and the tremors breaking out across Greg's shoulders, a wave of affection washed through him like a second orgasm. He raked his fingers through Greg's hair, held him and panted every flicker of pleasure back to him, stroking him, adoring him, for those few tiny moments as deeply connected as any two humans could ever be. Relief surged through his soul like a river bursting its banks; everything breathed.

In the shock of calm and peace that followed, Lestrade nuzzled into his neck.

"Come out for dinner with me," he said. "Tonight. While we're here, and we can."

_Oh._

_Oh, god._

Mycroft realised his heart had swept into his mouth. He swallowed it, trying to sound a little less breathless than he felt. It didn't work.

"D-Dinner - ?"

"Mhm. Tonight." Lestrade paused; he stroked a kiss along his jaw. "You know this isn't just sex, don't you?"

Mycroft's soul ignited. He shivered, and closed his eyes.

"Of course," he whispered. "No, I... I'm well aware. And I'd - love to go to dinner." He hesitated. "Thank you, Lestrade."

"Guessing we won't be able to, back in London."

Mycroft gathered his courage. "Ways and means."

He felt Lestrade smile against his neck; Greg then sleepily raised his head.

He gazed down at Mycroft from above for a moment, his eyes as bright as black diamonds, his grey hair soft and scruffed onto end.

"Think we get on well, you and me." He bit his lip, just a little. Mycroft's stomach squeezed. "Call me Greg, will you, gorgeous? Not just when I'm inside you."

_God._

"Greg," Mycroft murmured, and watched the smile become a grin.

"Mhm. Think I could get used to that." Greg leant down. He began to kiss the brand new marks he'd made, brushing his mouth across them with fondness. "Sleep for a little while, d'you think?"

Mycroft's entire body shone with enjoyment.

"Perhaps wise," he said, as Greg shifted gently off him. The loss of his lover's weight made him ache; it was a relief to be gathered at once into Greg's arms.

They nestled together beneath the crumpled sheets, a tangle of limbs and sex-flushed skin.

"Kiss me?" Greg whispered, as he cupped Mycroft's face in one hand.

As they kissed, and Greg's tongue eased tenderly into his mouth, Mycroft realised he wouldn't be returning to England the same man who'd left it.

He was incredibly glad.

 


End file.
